Songbird
by The Clockwork Fawn
Summary: After being separated from his sister and taken away to a mental asylum on the outskirts of London, young Finny finds himself incredibly alone. There he is used as a lab rat by doctors to pioneer an experiment described as a 'marvel of modern medical science'. Years of neglect and abuse cause him to lose what little hope he had until one day another lonely soul breaks the silence.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"But just look at this!" The man slammed his hand forcefully against the lustrous ornate top of the mahogany table and gestured to the papers in front of him, "Since the outbreak of influenza this winter, our production has fallen by almost fifty percent and subsequently we've had a great reduction in profits!" There was the grumbling of mutual discernment around the table. "It is totally unacceptable!" The portly, red-faced man continued, "If any more of our workers are stricken with this wretched disease we will have to seriously consider making _significant _cutbacks!" He spoke with great implication and his eyes met hesitantly with the woman sitting at the opposite end of the table.

She sighed indignantly, irritated by the man's ambiguous hinting, and answered with a cold yet confident inflection, "And what, exactly, do you expect _me_ to do about that?"

Her face was as hard as stone, and twice as cheerless. In a room as dimly lit and solemnly decorated as this one she looked even more severe than usual. There was no love in this woman, nor had there ever been. She was tall, stern and undeniably terrifying – a truly formidable woman so intimidating that even the Board of Patrons, gathered in the dingy backroom that evening, were evidently uneasy when meeting with her. There was an austerity in her demeanour so odious that she could drain the life from a room merely by entering it. This was Ms. Marchant, the governess at St. Michael's Orphanage & Workhouse.

"Well," he said, apprehension transparent across his face, "There is something we wish to discuss with you . . . a proposition per se?" His knuckles cracked under the pressure of being on the table.

"Continue." Her tone was indifferent and her face unmoved. She straightened herself on her chair impatiently while the ruddy-faced man fumbled frantically amidst the clutter on the table. Another, less portentous man calmly reached out and retrieved a file from amongst the debris, passing it casually to Ms. Marchant. The first man collapsed, relieved, into his chair which gave a dismayed groan under his weight. He gave an indebted half-smile to his colleague; only to be shot a disdainful look in return. The man his throat.

"Mrs Marchant-"

"Ms." She corrected scornfully.

"Ms. Marchant, my apologies. As Lord Ellingford has mentioned, more and more of our workers are going down every day! The trouble is, there seems to be nothing we can do about it, and if this sickness takes anymore of our workforce we'll have to consider stopping production! If the working classes weren't so obscenely idle then perhaps they might actually have the fortitude to withstand this damned disease – or perhaps the Good Lord might be benevolent enough not to punish their wanton greed and apathy in the first place! Either way they bring it upon themselves with their indulgent expectation of charity, instead of crawling out of the gutter and actually working for their money! Makes me wonder where this country is heading!"

Again, muttering circulated the table as the Board empathised with his reactionary frustration – most of them far too overweight to be in a position to criticise the 'indulgent' attitudes of the impoverished and destitute.

"However there's more for us to concern ourselves with than the current state of the nation." The man continued, taking on a more informative tone, "With so many of our workforce taken ill or inauspiciously deceased, we can no longer produce goods on the scale we are used to and so our capital has taken a substantial hit!"

Ms Marchant rolled her eyes, her disdain palpable in the air, "I do know how business works Mr. Leith."

Lord Ellingford rose suddenly, his chair scraping against the exposed floorboards. Cleary he regretted allowing Mr. Leith to take control of the situation. "What my partner was so crudely trying to explain is the crisis we find ourselves facing. On one hand, we simply cannot find the subsidy to keep this workhouse in operation, however on the other hand we value the work you do here very highly! Without the foundations you lay down here; the ethics and sense of conformity you bestow upon these sordid children, as well, of course, as a fear of the Lord in Heaven – we dread what kind of workers we may be forced to employ! Malingerers and layabouts . . . No, it simply would not do!"

Ms Marchant's expression remained detached and he knew he was losing her interest. She was not a woman who was easily inspired.

"Instead," He began with distinctly more vigour, "We have found a solution to suit us both, a compromise!"

"It's hardly a compromise when I really have no choice." Ms Marchant stated venomously, causing the Lord Ellingford to reel for a moment.

"A favour then, but one that will keep you in employment!" He tone was more demurring, but the stance he had taken on was certainly more assertive. It was clear that these negotiations were not the time sidestepping her uncongenial attitude. "The details are somewhat classified at this moment in time, but we are launching a new scheme that hopefully will be made available to our workers in the near future! A true marvel of modern medical science! Imagine if there was a way for us to strengthen our workforce tenfold. Although we have no solution to this particular outbreak, preventing our workforce from becoming so debilitated in the future would be in all of our best interests. Not only would we regain the profits we have lost out on this year, we would exceed them and undercut the competition too!"

"Oh enough of this childish speculation! What is it you want from me, Gentlemen?"

Taking this as a sign of her submission, Lord Ellingford relaxed and smiled. "We can pioneer a groundbreaking treatment which will make our workers the most resilient in England . . . All we ask of you is a child."

Her forehead furrowed slightly, though her skin was so taught against her face that it is surprising she could move it at all ". . . A child?"

"Yes, preferably a boy. One that's not got a lot of pluck; someone weak - scrawny - so that we can test the effectiveness of this procedure on even the most pathetic of souls."

Upon hearing these words, Ms. Marchant's approach altered. She leant forward slightly, a sly smile twitching at the corner of her thin lips as they curled under in devilish triumph. Her eyes glinted as she spoke "I think I have the perfect candidate in mind."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I'd been crouching outside the heavy wooden door, listening intently in almost complete darkness for the entire meeting.

All the other boys in my dormitory were asleep, as I should have been too, but foolish curiosity had overwhelmed me and Mr McClure was not patrolling the corridor as he usually did. Jimmy Perkins, one of the older boys, had once told me that McClure used to "sneak into the girl's dormitories when Ms Marchant was engaged in Board meetings to watch them sleep, and . . . y'know."

I didn't know. Nor did I want to. But I had remembered what Jimmy had said, and so that night I had waited until Mr McClure's clumsy footsteps had faded into nothingness and everyone else was sleeping before slipping out of bed and creeping down the blackness of the corridor in nothing but my nightshirt.

Not much of what they were saying meant anything to me, only that one of us would be lucky enough to get out of here. A dull ache was slowly beginning to climb up the backs of my calves and into my knees, and I was starting to regret this venture. I quickly reached down to maintain my balance, but the palm of my hand caught on a nail sticking up out of the floorboards.

I gasped as I fell back, forgetting momentarily that my mission of reconnaissance required silence.

The murmuring in the room came to an abrupt halt. My heart was pounding as I scrambled to my feet and began to run as fast as I could back towards my dormitory.

I heard the scrape of a chair against the exposed floorboards, the creak of the door hinges as it was thrown open and then that unmistakable, menacing voice which caused me to stop dead in my tracks.

"Finnian Beckett! Get back here now!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

". . . Eight . . . Nine . . . Ten!"

I let out a sharp cry as the thin wooden cane struck the palms of my hands for the final time. My face was red and wet with tears, not only from the pain but from the burning humiliation. I looked down in shame.

My palms were stinging and sticky with fresh blood, and I was aware that Mr McClure's beady eyes were fixed furiously on me as he wiped clean his cane. His smile was victorious.

The other children looked on in silence, emotionless. All except one. I caught a glimpse of Molly, my younger sister, watching terrified, clutching onto the ragged stuffed bear that she never seemed to let go of. She seemed more distressed than I was, and as I looked up at her she began to sob.

Jimmy Perkins leant down and pressed his hand against her mouth, looking up at me knowingly. I was grateful. I knew that if Ms Marchant heard her, Molly would face the cane as well. She was only six years old.

Mr McClure leant closer, vile breath seeping from between his yellowed teeth. His face was inches from mine, and my bloodied hands began to tremble as he snarled, "You always were a troublesome one! Little rat sniffing around other people's business. If I had it my way you'd be out on the street, like your filthy mother was before we took her in. It's our generosity that keeps you fed boy, _never_ forget that!"

"My mother wasn't filthy!"

A grubby hand shot out and seized me by the collar of my shirt, "What was that? Think you're funny, do you?" He let go of me, and before I even had time to regain my balance I felt the sting of the cane as it lashed against my cheek, knocking me to the floor. He had left an open wound, and it stung as my tears mingled with the fresh blood.

"_Finny_!" Jimmy was struggling to restrain Molly, and my heart sank as I heard her cry out. She was too young to understand why she had to stay quiet.

"You're mother was nothing but a criminal. God had forsaken her, and he'll do the same to you. I will not be spoken to like that by some wretched whore's bastard! You'll rot in Hell just like her!" He seemed to spit every word, and I flinched as I saw him raise his cane above his head, closing my eyes and bracing myself for another strike.

"Mr McClure, that is quite enough." Ms Marchant spoke calmly, as if giving instructions to a servant or a dog.

I took a deep breath, feeling an odd mix of relief and frustration as McClure lowered the cane and stepped away from me, panting furiously.

"It appears we'll have to discipline both Becketts in the same day!" Ms Marchant scowled at Molly, who was now gripping tightly onto Jimmy, eyes wide with fear. Mr McClure's face lit up in anticipation. He strode over to Molly, grabbing her tightly by the wrist and pulling her away from Jimmy. His face twisted into a smile as she struggled against him.

"No! Don't! Please!" I cried, forgetting my own pain the second Molly became endangered, "She doesn't understand! This is my fault! Don't punish her."

Ms Marchant raised an eyebrow as she looked in my direction, but at least I had her attention.

"I'll take her punishment too! I'll take double it! Please! Please don't hurt her!" I was not so much bargaining as begging.

"Alright!" Ms Marchant sneered, "But only in the hope that it will teach you that such acts of valour are neither wise nor endearing. Mr McClure, give the boy 20 more strokes!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

A few days had passed since my caning, and although the wounds on my hands were beginning to heal, the pain would not subside. I had spent my day being forced to unpick old ropes with a group of elderly women, rather than the usual work set out for the boys, since I had been deemed 'unfit' for the task by McClure.

I wasn't like Jimmy, who could operate heavy machinery with ease, or Avery Thorp who, despite his height, could carry a piece of thick timber under each arm from one end of the workhouse to the other. I was weak. I would always be the one to drop a heavy machine part, or collapse under the weight of whatever I was carrying on my shoulder. I was the only boy in the whole workhouse who was not strong enough to work the machines single handedly. It made me stand out, and was one of the reasons that Ms Marchant hated me so much.

We were being prepared for factory work; learning how to operate the same machines which had been installed in every cotton mill owned by the Board of Patrons so that when we were old enough to leave the workhouse we would still be of some use to them. That was the grand scheme. They put all their efforts into raising workers so that they had a constant supply of employees who had already been trained, and who were willing to work for next to nothing just to escape from this monstrous place.

However there was no place in this process for someone who couldn't even work the levers on a cotton spinning machine. I was useless to them, and so treated with complete and utter disdain.

Dirt and fibres from the ropes filled the deep cuts on my hands. I had given up trying to remove the coarse, straw like threads embedded in my palms as it only aggravated the wounds further. The women would occasionally glance at me, but they said nothing. They all looked so wearied, with scraped back silvery hair and deep creases around the eyes. I wondered how many years they had been here, picking apart rope day in day out for a scrap of food to keep them going, for what? Was it even worth staying alive if all there was left for them was unravelling rope for the rest of their days? Looking at them all with their heads down, wearing away their fingertips to nothing but bloodied tissue, I couldn't understand why they did it.

By the end of that day, I felt more exhausted than if I had been working alongside the others. Being in such a sombre environment could be more draining than manual labour. When I was finally permitted to leave, I made my way from the outdoor courtyard to the large dining hall, meeting Jimmy on the way.

"Cor, what's 'appened to yer 'ands?" He exclaimed as soon as he saw me, "Still not letting ya work like the rest of us? It ain't your fault Finny."

Actually it was, but I appreciated him trying to console me. For years now, I'd been sneaking food from my plate at meal times and giving it to Molly. Like me, she was naturally lean. She was born early, and from what I can remember her birth was very complicated – not that I understood that at the time. So complicated, in fact, that it led to our mother's death. Molly had always been a sickly child, and after a bout of smallpox in her infancy which almost caused her to go blind, I decided that she needed my food a lot more than I did. The consequence of this was the toll it took on my own body, but she would always come first.

We entered the hall in silence, and stood in line to be served the same colourless, tasteless gruel that we were served every day with a small mouthful of stale bread - which I immediately slipped into my pocket. Reminded of Molly, I looked around to see if she was alright. I knew McClure hadn't been satisfied with me taking Molly's punishment in her place, and I was anxious to keep and eye on her until his anger had subsided.

"Jimmy, can you see Molly anywhere?" We found a space on one of the wooden benches, and quickly sat down to eat, though my eyes were still searching for my sister.

He paused to look around, "No, she's not with the other girls."

I was now incredibly worried, but before I had time to respond the Chaplain entered to supervise the prayers we said before we were allowed to eat. The entire room bowed their heads and began with "Our Father, who art in heaven", yet I was still busy trying to find Molly in the crowd.

A sharp tap on the back of my head served as a reminder that I too should be praying, and I turned to catch a glimpse Ms Marchant frowning disapprovingly at me before I quickly joined in with "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven." I had said this prayer enough times to repeat easily, and as I mumbled the words I thought it strange that Ms Marchant would be the one supervising the meal. When I looked round, I had expected McClure to be standing there, prowling as usual since Ms Marchant always retired early in the evenings.

A sickening suspicion aroused in my mind that both Molly's absence and McClure's were not unconnected.

"Tell Ms Marchant that I suddenly felt unwell." I whispered to Jimmy during "Deliver us from evil".

He turned to look at me, bewildered, but I had no time to explain. With an urgency which caused the bowl of gruel to fall onto the floor and shatter loudly, I got to my feet and began to run, weaving my way between the tables and benches in the hall - heart pounding as I headed as quickly as possible towards the door.

I was aware that the hall had fallen silent, and as I reached the door, mind racing, I heard Ms Marchant screech a phrase which was becoming increasingly frequent; "Finnian Beckett! Get back here now!"

I did not stop running.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Once out of the hall I stopped dead, listening. The only sound I could hear was Ms Marchant's voice as she tried to settle the other children in the dining hall, but the sickening feeling I had in the pit of my stomach drove me to keep on searching. I wasn't going to turn back until I found her; I was only hoping that I wasn't too late.

"Molly?"

I kept running, checking every doorway as made my way through the maze of corridors.

"Molly?!"

I passed a flight of wooden stairs when I heard a muffled but unmistakable voice. It sounded like a scream or cry for help, and I turned instantly to where it seemed to come from, darting up the stairs. My hands were shaking from both the fear and the rush of adrenaline I was feeling. I was only focussed on one thing.

The door to the girls' dormitory was already open when I approached it, and I instantly caught sight of McClure as he pushed Molly against the far wall, his grubby yellow fingernails digging into her soft cheek as he pressed his hand against her mouth. His other hand was pulling at the skirt of her pinafore.

"Leave her alone!" I ran towards them without thinking, pushing my way under his arm and standing protectively in front of Molly. I reached my hand back and she took it, trembling even more than I was. I was terrified.

McClure loomed over us, his thick, greasy hair hanging about his face in matted clumps. There was a determined, unnerving glint in his eye, but despite every instinct in my body telling me to run I stood firmly and looked up at him, my solidity equalling his.

"Move." He snarled, his face nearing mine.

Every one of my nerves was on edge, and I was sure that at any minute I might be sick, but I gritted my teeth and glared up at him, "No."

With a single strike from the back of his hand, McClure sent me flying into the iron frame of the nearest bed. I pulled myself up onto my knees, vision blurred and head spinning, tears now forming in my eyes.

"Molly! Run!" I looked up at her as she desperately clutched onto her stuffed bear for comfort. She did as I said, slipping out of his clutches while he was momentarily distracted. However as she stumbled, McClure turned and grabbed at her, snatching again at her skirt and sliding a filthy hand against her inner thigh as she squirmed.

She dropped the bear and screamed, looking to me with wide, panic-stricken eyes.

"Let go of her you bastard!" I got to my feet, rage overwhelming me, and charged at him, jumping up and locking my arms around his next in an attempt to pull him backwards. McClure coughed and let go of Molly in shock, taking a few steps back.

"Go! Now!" I shouted, tightening my grip on McClure's throat to make sure he didn't try to grab her again.

"Finny!" She looked up, scared and confused.

"Run!" I yelled again, and this time she did, her footsteps fading after she disappeared from view.

This was now between the two of us. My anger seemed to take over me. I knew that if I let go now he would probably beat me senseless and then go after Molly. I had to keep her safe, no matter what. McClure began to pant and wheeze, pulling frantically at my arms as I clasped onto his throat. His face became redder and redder, but I daren't let go. My legs wrapped around his waist, and no matter how much McClure struggled against me, I was paralysed with fear and unable to let go.

I was shouting, infuriated, though my mind seemed to be empty, clouded by a fury which seemed to boil in my blood. I shut my eyes tightly, feeling McClure stumble and sway, his hands becoming weaker against my arms as he gave another feeble gasp.

His knees gave way, and he fell backwards, crushing me. For a moment I laid there, panting, tears rolling down the sides of my face as I tried to comprehend what just happened. I felt a burning sensation on my arms where McClure had tried to prise me off him.

Shakily, I pushed him away from me and got to my feet. His face was red, though his hands were completely colourless, and his bloodshot eyes looked empty and lifeless. I stepped back, my hands half covering my eyes as I tried to shut out the scene before me. I tried to tell myself it wasn't real, but I knew as soon as I saw the dark bruising already beginning to form on his throat, that I had made a terrible, terrible mistake.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

It was at least ten minutes before Ms Marchant finally found me. I was on my knees, sobbing as I tried to come to terms with what had just happened – so frightened that I couldn't even move.

I felt her presence as soon as she entered the room, though I did not dare to turn and look at her. My eyes were fixed on the floor, as if by not looking at the horror around me it would somehow become less real. As her footsteps grew louder behind me, I began to shake more. Each click of her boot against the creaking floorboards seemed to echo in my head as though there were no other thoughts; only that sound, louder, closer.

A hand grasped my arm and hauled me to my feet.

"You little brat!" The back of her bony hand struck my face, "Do you know what you've done?"

I couldn't respond. I searched for something to say, but I was frozen.

"Look me in the eye, you vile, evil child!"

I turned my head away, too scared and ashamed to face up to what I had done. I tried to focus on the fact that no matter what, Molly would be safe now.

She pressed a finger underneath my chin, lifting my head so I could see the loathing in her eyes, "You know what happens to murderers don't you, Beckett?" her tone was cold, "They get strung up, lynched, hanged until dead! And if you've paid any attention to the Chaplain's sermons you'll know what comes after that!"

A smile crossed Ms Marchant's face when she saw the look of pure terror on mine. She grasped my wrist and began to drag me towards the door. I was already exhausted, and could not pull away despite my best efforts.

"No! Please!"

She marched me down the stairs and through the workhouse, her claw-like nails digging into my shoulders, "Believe me, there is nothing that would bring me more pleasure in this world than to see your lifeless corpse swinging from a rope. Unfortunately for me, today's your lucky day, though, either way, I believe you'll get what you deserve."

I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but I didn't question it. I had already accepted that I would have to pay the price for what I had done, and though it crippled me with fear to even think about it, I did not regret what I had done, or feel any remorse. As long as Molly could live a long, fulfilling life, then that was all that mattered to me – even if it would cost my own.

We reached the entrance hall, and I was thrown at the feet of a group of overweight, overdressed men who I recognised as the Board of Patrons from the meeting I had eavesdropped on. Confused, I looked up, tears still falling onto my cheeks.

"Sorry for the delay Gentlemen. There was a slight complication with our Governor, Mr McClure. I hope I have not kept you waiting?"

I was shocked at how pleasant and polite her tone was compared to her demeanour only seconds ago.

"Not at all, Ms Marchant." Lord Ellingford replied, "This is the boy?" He seemed to be inspecting me, "He will do. Come along boy!"

Lord Ellingford tapped me with his cane and bade me to get to my feet. I was led outside into the workhouse courtyard, rain beating down from the night's sky.

"What's happening?" I asked apprehensively, stopping dead in my tracks.

"Keep moving, boy!" A voice grunted in response.

"Wait! Please! You can't take me away from my sister! She needs me!"

Lord Ellingford called out to the driver of a dark, solid coach stationed in the courtyard, who made his way towards me, grabbing my collar, "Listen here, you little wretch! You're coming with me, and you're not going to cause a fuss, understand?" His voice was menacing.

"But my sister!"

"Do you understand?" He gripped my collar tighter, lifting me off the ground. He gave a nod to the Patrons and then escorted me to the coach. It was made of iron, painted black, with only a small barred window and a bolted door. I tried to resist his attempts to push me inside, but I was easily overpowered.

Hearing the bolt slam across the door, I began to panic. With the crack of a whip, the horses began to move, causing me to lose my balance inside the darkened cage.

"Stop! Please! Stop the coach!" I cried, slamming my fist against the metal wall, "Molly! Stop! Please stop!"

My cries grew louder but they went unheard. For what must have been over an hour I pleaded with the driver to stop, until a glimpse of the moonlit countryside out of the window told me that I was now very far away from London, from the workhouse, and from Molly.

Exhausted, I sat against the wall, listening as the rain hammered against the iron roof and blew in from the window. I had no idea what my future held, so I could only reflect on the events of that evening and pray that Ms Marchant would not punish Molly too harshly until eventually the heaviness of sleep pulled me down.


End file.
